People of the Lightning(60)

It stood utterly still, then flicked its tail, and dropped its head. He heard blades of grass squeak as she plucked another mouthful.

Pondwader prodded his fire with a stick and studied Musselwhite. She lay on her left side, her head pillowed on one arm, the blanket pulled up so that it just covered her bare breasts. Hair tumbled down her back, and the silver strands glittered in the morning’s glow. She looked so beautiful, so … vulnerable. A hot rush of blood came to Pondwader’s face. She had made him feel very much like a man last night. Stronger. Older. He had not expected this—to be so radiantly happy with his new wife. But he loved her. Blessed Spirits, how he loved her … .

She stirred, almost as though she sensed his deep emotions. Pondwader whispered, “Sleep. Breakfast is not warm yet. I’m sure you’re still tired.”

Musselwhite raised herself on one elbow, yawned, and combed hair away from her face with her fingers. “You must be tired, too. Every time I moved in the night, you reached over to pat me. Why don’t you come back and sleep with me, Pondwader? We could both use the rest, and no one will care if we don’t appear in the village until this afternoon.” Dark circles shone below her eyes. She appeared truly haggard.

“But what of our food?”

“It will keep,” she replied and held out a hand to him.

Pondwader rose and walked over to slip beneath the warm blanket again, facing her. Musselwhite wrapped her arms around him, and pulled him closer. Tenderly, he ran his hand down her side and over the swell of her hip. Her chest expanded with a breath, and she smiled.

He continued stroking her side, because it soothed him. The texture of her skin was like cattail down, almost too soft to believe.

After a time, she whispered, “You’re not sleeping, Pondwader.”

“I’m sorry. I keep thinking about the Dream I had last night.”

She mumbled, “Hmm? Dream?”

“Yes, it was … very curious.”

“What was it about?”

Pondwader let himself drown for a long moment in the silken texture of her skin. “A turtle-bone doll.”

“A doll?”

“Yes.” He conjured it again on the fabric of his souls, seeing the ragged tunic and faded paint. “It’s old, I think, dressed in a worn tunic, and has long black hair. It must have had a face painted on it once, because faint splotches of color—”

With lightning quickness, she threw off the blanket, revealing her naked torso, and gripped his hand hard, her eyes like black beads of obsidian. “Where did you see it?”

“What is it?” he asked, panicked. “What’s wrong?”

“Tell me.”

“In my Dream last night! It Danced in front of my eyes, the hem of its tunic whirling. Why? Who does it belong to?”

Her voice softened. “I’m not sure, but … maybe to my—my son.”

“Your son? Do you mean Thorny Boy?”

She released his hand and sat up fully. Her breasts gleamed in the pale wash of sunlight. Perspiration had beaded on her turned-up nose and across the planes of her high cheekbones. She rubbed a hand over her face. “Forgive me, Pondwader. I didn’t mean to frighten you. It’s just that … that doll once meant something to me … if it’s the same doll. Tell me what else you saw.”

Anxiously, he stammered, “S-strange things. I saw a tornado and—”

“A tornado?”

“Yes.” He could still see it, descending like a writhing black snake from the clouds out over the ocean. “It swayed drunkenly over a beach. I don’t know where. I’ve never seen the place. But the whole time, while the tornado was ripping up trees and flinging them away, the doll Danced. Leaping and swirling, as if it was very happy.” Pondwader swallowed past the knot that had grown in his throat. Bravely, he asked, “Musselwhite? Did you make the doll?”

The lines around her eyes deepened. “Why would you think that?”

“Well, it’s just that, it feels like you. I can’t explain it, but in the Dream, I thought it was you. I know that sounds silly, but—”

“No. It doesn’t sound silly. If it’s the same doll, I breathed my soul into it. I made it many summers ago. For my son. Just before he d-died.”

The baby Lightning Bird in Pondwader’s chest glowed to life suddenly. Dazzling flashes of light left blue-white tracks across his souls, and sheer terror possessed him.

“What is it?” Musselwhite asked.

“Nothing. I …” He could not tell her. Not yet. Not so soon after their marriage. “And there was a man, Musselwhite. Two men, really. But one had his arms open to the tornado, his head thrown back.” Pondwader demonstrated the stance, gazing up into the pure light that had eaten his eyes. “All around the man falling stars struck the earth like rain and … at least I think they were falling stars … and I heard a voice, calling my name. Calling and calling, and—” he cocked his head—“and I never answer.”